The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Anonymous, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a woman’s voice, or a man’s?”

  “It’s hard to say. The voice was disguised.”

  She thoughtfully wadded up her hamburger wrapper, popping the paper ball into the wastebasket. “I think,” she said, “that I should probably phone my lawyer.”

  “Certainly. I figured you’d want to do that.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Some people call lawyers as a—a kind of reflex action.”

  “You don’t approve of that?”

  “If you’ve got the money, Miss Franks, I think it’s great. I admit, it makes my job a little more difficult. Fortunately, though, most people can’t afford lawyers.”

  She looked at me silently. She seemed to have forgotten the milkshake, still only half finished. “The point is,” she said finally, “this anonymous call constitutes a slander. I come in contact with lots of people. I make a few enemies, like anyone else who accomplishes anything. And any one of them can make anonymous phone calls. He’s got nothing to lose.”

  “Or ‘she.’”

  She looked at me sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” I answered, “if I had to guess, I’d say it was a girl’s voice.”

  Her eyes slipped to the velvet curtain, briefly.

  “I was wondering,” I said, “whether Maxine Summers is around.”

  She didn’t even bother to exclaim, or to quiz me. In a single glance exchanged, we both assessed the other’s reaction—and the other’s suspicions.

  “Is she around?” I pressed.

  “We had a little—difference of opinion this morning. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Just after we left?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the difference of opinion concerning the fact that you’d called the police, Miss Franks?”

  Surprised, she nodded. “That’s right?”

  “Why do you suppose she was so upset, that you’d called the police?”

  She said carefully, “Maxine is a very suspicious person. And she had some trouble with the police a few months ago. So now Maxine’s a cop hater.” She smiled. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

  I returned the smile, deciding not to press her for Maxine’s record. It would be easy enough to check. I had her talking; I wanted to keep her talking. Without her lawyer.

  “How long has Maxine Summers worked for you, Miss Franks?”

  “Oh, off and on for a month or two.”

  “What did she do before that?”

  “She had part interest in a bar downtown.” She hesitated, her dark, almond-shaped eyes lingering as she added, “It was on Taylor and Hyde streets.”

  The tenderloin—the homosexual, lesbian section. Thus the police record, probably.

  “I understand,” I said, “that Miss Summers, ah, spent a lot of time with Karen Forest, before the murder.”

  Impassively she looked at me, revealing nothing.

  I decided the time had come to light a cigarette, then shift my ground. “Have you any idea,” I began, “why Miss Summers would’ve called me? Assuming, of course, that it was Miss Summers.”

  “No,” she answered shortly. “No idea at all.”

  “Would the call have anything to do with any financial dealings that the two of you had? You and Karen Forest, I mean.”

  “It could’ve been pure malice. Did she say that I—” She hesitated, slightly lifting her chin. “—that I actually murdered Karen Forest?”

  I shook my head, then repeated the conversation, word for word. If she’d been disconcerted earlier, she was in complete possession of herself now. She looked, in fact, as if she were expecting me to leave, so that she could get some work done.

  I drew slowly on a cigarette, then reached for my hat. “I won’t keep you, Miss Franks. I just wanted to let you know what happened. And I’m glad that you understand why it’s necessary for us to check on all tips, whether we think they’re accurate or not.”

  She shrugged. “Certainly.”

  “Good. Now—” Again I drew on the cigarette. “As I understand it, you didn’t have any dealings with Karen Forest. Is that right?”

  Her eyes narrowed, her lips tightened. “I didn’t say that, Sergeant.”

  “Oh. You did have dealings with her, then.”

  “I think I did. I’d have to check back.”

  “You can’t remember, then. Is that right?”

  She hesitated; she’d lost some of her self-possession. Finally she said, “That’s right, I can’t remember. I’m in to several things, as I told you.”

  I smiled. “Sure, I understand. How about this: you check back in your records, and I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow. Will that be all right?”

  She shrugged, then nodded. Calmly.

  “Good. Fine.” I rose, grinding out the cigarette. “There’s just one more thing, then, that I have to check.”

  She didn’t reply. I liked the long, tensed arch of her neck, and her dark, sleek hair. Could she be a lesbian? It would be a waste.

  “What did you do,” I asked slowly, “on the evening of the Forest murder? That was a Friday—three weeks ago. Or, rather, four weeks ago, tomorrow.”

  Slowly, she said: “I went out to dinner that night. Then I went to a play. Othello. At the Winsome.”

  “Did you go alone?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I went alone. On Friday nights, I get out of here. For a breath of air. This is business for me, not pleasure. And I have to get away.”

  “Did you happen to see anyone that you knew during the evening?”

  She shook her head, her eyes holding mine, steadily. Everything about her was perfectly still. Frozen.

  I smiled, a little uneasily, perhaps. “Thanks for your time, Miss Franks. I’ll be in touch with you, tomorrow. In the meantime, if you find out who called us, I’d like to know about it. Immediately.”

  In the huge room outside, the scene had hardly changed, except that the crowd was larger, and the light dimmer. In the far corner I saw Vannuchi, at the same table he’d occupied yesterday. I hadn’t seen him as I entered. He waved to me, then heaved himself to his feet. I walked to meet him.

  “How’s Angie?” he asked. “Have you talked to her yet?”

  “Not yet, Vannuchi. Have you found out anything that might help us?”

  “Not much. A few characters think they might’ve seen Robertson Tuesday afternoon, but they aren’t really sure. I still think, though, that he was with Angie.”

  “How about Sandy Tomilson?”

  “That’s why I waved to you. I just saw him five minutes ago in a bead shop, just a block down the street. This afternoon I asked around about him, and then I just happened to—”

  “Come on.” I grabbed his beefy arm. “Show me.”

  He shrugged, called to his table that he’d be right back, and together we went out on to Haight Street.

  We began walking, slowed by the crowds of casually strolling hippies. The night was cold and foggy.

  “You seem to’ve lost your normal cool, Sergeant,” he was saying. “Is this Tomilson a real desperado?”

  “No. I’m just—checking.”

  Briefly it occurred to me that I felt, in that instant, like a suspect must feel during interrogation.

  “We’d better hurry,” I said. “Was he shopping in this bead shop? Or does he work there?”

  “He looked like he was shopping. I didn’t go inside; I just saw him through the window. Here it is.” We stopped before a narrow shop, crowded with customers. Vannuchi pointed towards the right side of the store. “See that blond kid with the rimless glasses, wearing the khaki safari jacket?”

  I nodded. The bead shop was in the same block where I’d parked the car. I decided that I’d wait for Tomilson to come outside, so as not to attract attention. I carefully scanned the dozen-odd customers. Claudia wasn’t among them.

  “You can go now, Vannuchi,” I said. “And thank
s.”

  He stood with his arms folded, feet wide, looking at me.

  “After what we’ve been through today, Sergeant,” he said, “I think I’m going to give you some advice.”

  I sighed, placing myself so that I could see Tomilson when he came outside.

  “Earlier today, Sergeant, you gave me something to think about,” Vannuchi was saying. “You widened my horizons, with your little dissertation on prejudice, and the hippie’s role in society. So, now, I’m willing to return the favour. You broadened my horizons; I’ll broaden yours. Fair?”

  “It’s a public sidewalk, Vannuchi.”

  “And I did help you, up on the roof, Sergeant. You took my suggestion. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  Vannuchi looked at me, thoughtfully chewing at his beard.

  “You know, Sergeant, one of the reasons I decided to, ah, retire from twentieth-century society is that everyone, if he’s going to get anywhere, has to assume the role that his profession dictates. Have you ever considered that point?”

  “Listen, Vannuchi. It seems like I’ve spent all day, listening to you philosophise. I don’t deny that you’ve been helpful. And I appreciate it. But—”

  “I’ll make it very concise, Sergeant. My message is, briefly, this: during the entire course of our association, you’ve seen only one aspect of Haight Ashbury—the seamy side. Maybe that’s the nature of your business—a constant preoccupation with the seamy side. But the point is, there’s more than that to the Haight. Most of the kids down here are sincerely looking for love. And I’m not talking about mass-media love—not Doris Day and Rock Hudson. I’m talking about love as a way of life. Nonviolence. Peace. Understanding. Now, it’s true that twenty years from now—when these kids are your age, and mine—they probably won’t be much different from us. But they will be a little different. And a little difference can add up to a big difference, for society. People change as they grow older, true. They mature, whatever that means. But they remember, too. They—” He paused, drawing a breath. “But I won’t get started. All I wanted to really tell you is this: after you hauled Angie off, I did some thinking about some of the things you told me. I really did. There’ve been, after all, two murders here, in the past month. True, the victims were atypical—especially Karen Forest. But the point is, murder is the antithesis of love. And, I decided, people should do something about it, before there’re more babies teetering over the edges of more rooftops, as you said. So, remembering that you’d mentioned Sandy Tomilson, I asked around about him. And finally I found him, this afternoon, at the Crushed Chrysanthemum. I—”

  “Did you tell him that I was looking for him?”

  “No. But I talked to him. And the burden of my message, Sergeant, is that Sandy Tomilson is a good kid. He’s a real flower child, Sergeant. Now, to you, the term ‘flower child’ might have a negative connotation, in fact. But I have a feeling, without getting into your personal life, that it’s very important—very important to you—that you don’t pre-judge Sandy Tomilson.” Vannuchi said it seriously, meeting my gaze squarely. Then, making a wry little sign of benediction, he turned away. “That’s the message, Sergeant,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s the word for today.”

  For a moment I watched him go: he was already talking to a dark-haired girl, walking along with her, laughing.

  Sandy Tomilson was moving towards the door, waiting for another customer to step aside, then moving out onto the sidewalk. He hadn’t seen me; he was walking towards Masonic, in the direction of my car. I fell into step behind him, and as we approached the car I moved to his side.

  “Sandy Tomilson?”

  He turned, smiling. Then, as if he recognised me, he involuntarily moved a half-step away.

  “I’m Frank Hastings,” I said. “Claudia’s father. This is my car.” I opened the door. “Get inside. In the front seat.”

  Silently, he obeyed. I saw him looking at the clip board attached to the dashboard, and at the radio beneath. Had he ever been in a police car before?

  I slammed the door, then twisted to face him. “Where’s Claudia?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “What d’you mean, you don’t know? I thought the two of you were supposed to be together.”

  Miserably, he dropped his eyes, saying nothing. I allowed the silence to continue for a moment, while I studied him. He was about five foot ten, a hundred fifty pounds. He resembled John Harper, except that Tomilson’s features were more regular. Remembering what Vannuchi had said, I made a conscious effort to evaluate Tomilson’s face objectively. And ignoring his haircut, his absurd rimless glasses and his stained safari jacket, he was a good-looking boy. His brown eyes were sensitive and alert; his mouth was straight and firm. His blond hair was long but neatly trimmed. He looked healthy and clean.

  “Well?” I said. “How about it? It was bad enough, thinking that Claudia had run away to be with you. But if the two of you stayed together, there was some protection, no matter what else you might’ve done. Now, though, I find out that you aren’t taking care of her, after all.”

  “We—” He shook his head. “We found that we didn’t care for each other as—as much as we thought we did. We’d been separated for weeks, after school got out. Months. For the—the first days we were together, here, it was great. Really great. Really—meaningful. Then though, we—we discovered that we just weren’t the same people, anymore. And—well—Claudia met this—this other guy. This poet, so-called. And she—she moved out. I—I don’t know whether—” He let the sentence die, his eyes flickering apprehensively aside to meet mine briefly. He swallowed. Twice.

  “You don’t know what, Tomilson?”

  “Well, I—I don’t know whether she moved in with him or not. She just—just moved out. She said she had to do her own thing.”

  “What’s the name of this—this poet?”

  “Clemson. Jeffrey Clemson.”

  “How old is Clemson, would you say?”

  “About—” He swallowed, looking at me sidelong, guiltily. “About twenty-three, I guess. Maybe twenty-five.”

  “Twenty—” I watched my hand, still on the seat-back, bunching into a fist. The hand seemed to be reacting to a will of its own, independent of mine.

  “I should work you over, Tomilson,” I said softly. “I should drive you around the corner, and find a dark street, and work you over.”

  Slowly, he lifted his head, turned, and stared at me, mutely. He seemed resigned. Miserable. But not afraid. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem afraid.

  “I’m sorry it happened this way, Mr. Hastings. I—I feel terrible, about it. But there—there wasn’t anything I could do. I couldn’t’ve—”

  “You could’ve called me, Tomilson. Just dialled police headquarters, and asked for me. It wouldn’t’ve taken more than a minute.”

  “I—I know. But I didn’t think it would be fair to Claudia. I mean, she has a right to—”

  “A right to what, Tomilson?”

  “To—to live her own life.”

  To my own surprise, I found myself snorting. He was so serious—talking so seriously about children living their own lives. I watched my fist slowly unclench.

  “Do you know,” I said slowly, “that actually I’m on duty, down here in Haight Ashbury?”

  “About that murder, you mean?”

  “About the murder. Right. And, today, I spent an hour or so trying to stop a girl named Angie Sawyer from throwing a baby over the edge of a roof—all because she was having a bad trip. She was probably ‘living her own life,’ too. And Donny Robertson—the murder victim—was apparently so far gone on drugs that even if he hadn’t been murdered, probably by another hippie, he’d never’ve amounted to anything. His life was over, Tomilson, before he ever got himself killed. So then I’ve got you—you and Claudia. Both underage. Living your own lives. Both of you playing house, without knowing what you’re playing at.”

  Now he was hanging his head. Suddenly he remi
nded me of Darrell. Whenever I’d punished Darrell—the few times—he’d hung his head, sniffling. I could still see him—so small, so miserable, and so sorry.

  “Do you realise, Tomilson,” I said slowly, “that you could probably be prosecuted on a charge of statutory rape,”

  He didn’t respond, except to swallow. He was gripping the front edge of the seat with either hand, staring down at the floor.

  “You could probably also be held on a vag charge—vagrancy. You could spend the night in jail, then be sent to the Youth Guidance Centre. I don’t imagine it’d be much fun, being a hippie at the Youth Guidance Centre.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Hastings. I really am. Sorry for the trouble we caused. I—I already wrote my parents, that Claudia and I split up. I—I figured that they’d tell Claudia’s mother. It—it was the most I could do.”

  I sighed, softly swore, and finally looked away from him, staring out into the cold, foggy night.

  Twenty-five years old. A poet, so-called.

  “All right, Tomilson,” I said finally. “Maybe you’ve got a chance to bail yourself out of this. But let me tell you something: if you see Claudia, I want you to call me. You can tell her to call, if you want to, but then—an hour later—I want to hear from you, as a double check. And if you don’t do exactly like I say, so help me, I’ll see that you disappear for a week or so—until your parents come and get you. In jail. Do you understand me?”

  “Y—” He licked at his lips. “Yes.”

  “All right. Now, as long as I’ve got you here, I may as well transact a little business.” I drew a deep, uneven breath—collecting myself, trying to think professionally.

  “I understand,” I said slowly, “that you were one of thirty-odd men questioned in the murder of Karen Forest, approximately a month ago. Is that right?”

  “Yes. But—” He looked at me with a sudden, walleyed apprehension. “But I—I—”

  “What did you tell the officer who interrogated you?”

  “Well, the—the truth. I was in the Crushed Chrysanthemum that night. All night.”

  “You didn’t leave?”

  “N—no. Not once.”